But they disagreed with him that the same man who murdered Brenda also killed Keisha Moffett and Jamal. Because Jamal’s body was never found, they believed he killed his girlfriend and willingly disappeared.
But Gillespie thought differently.
Until now, he never had the resources to search for Jamal’s body.
Thanks to Agent O’Reilly, Gillespie was able to watch as his men, along with the feds, scoured the mountains on foot and by helicopter for the remains of a young man.
As his mind drifted, he held onto his notepad, scribbling whatever they found and where they searched.
It was still a strong possibility their time would be wasted.
He knew that.
But at least they were finally trying to get to the bottom of a five-year mystery.
Daylight was waning, and Gillespie felt a yawn coming, but he refused to call it a night. They’d only been searching for a few hours. He couldn't give in to sleep just yet. They still had a lot of ground to cover.
“Chief!”
A young officer called out to him, and Gillespie hurried to where she stood, kneeling on the ground.
Sergeant Karen Black snapped a photo before reaching into a bed of leaves and pulling out a small, black box. She pushed to her feet so she’d be at the same height as Gillespie, and then opened the box.
Its hinges were rusty, but it creaked open with ease.
Inside was a diamond ring, almost as brand new as it had been when originally bought.
Gillespie exchanged glances with his young sergeant. He knew she knew how important this search was to him. She’d been a part of the investigative team. Gillespie knew the sergeant also had reservations about Jamal’s guilt.
“Could it be his?” she asked, her voice breathy.
“Over here! I’ve got something!”
Gillespie’s heart leaped to his throat.
With Black hot on his heels, he rushed to where a federal agent was kneeling, looking at something on the ground.
One of his officers carefully stepped to where the agent stooped. When Gillespie arrived, he saw what was hidden beneath the leaves and dirt: a pile of bones and a human skull.
“Careful,” Gillespie instructed the agent. “Don’t hurt it.”
The agent glared at him but stepped away to allow one of the men to snap a photo before another carefully brushed away debris covering the remains.
Sergeant Black was already on the phone requesting for a forensic anthropologist to come to their location right away, as one of Gillespie’s men began collecting bugs that crawled around the skull. With the bugs, he’d be able to determine the approximate time of death.
“Hard to believe, isn't it?” Sergeant Black said after she ended her phone call.
Gillespie nodded.
“Want me to contact the family?”
“No,” Gillespie said, his eyes still on the skull. “We need to confirm it, then I’ll contact his family. It should be me.”
Gillespie stood in the medical examiner’s office as the forensic anthropologist the FBI sent him ran tests on the remains. She'd already sent fiber samples to the lab and ordered a request for Jamal's dental work.
The testing would take a few hours, and he realized his presence was annoying her, but Gillespie was too anxious to be anywhere else. He stood in the far corner of the room, and as he waited for her to finish her analysis, he glanced through the photos his people took of the bones and ring. He’d already emailed the photos to Agent O’Reilly and informed him as soon as he confirmed the remains belonged to Jamal Foster, he’d give him a call.
The anthropologist's assistant entered the room and handed her a sheet of paper.
“Well?” Gillespie said impatiently. He stepped closer to the gray slab of a table and studied the remains. “Is it Jamal Foster?”
“It is,” she told him. “And gauging from the markings on his neck bone, his throat was sliced, which is the cause of death. And...” The anthropologist hesitated as she scanned the sheet her assistant handed her. “The bugs collected from the remains match my findings for the estimated TOD. He died around the time Keisha Moffett was murdered.”
Gillespie's stomach took a dive.
“He was likely trying to find help,” he muttered. “He wasn’t where the other two victims were.”
“I’d say congratulations,” the anthropologist said, “but I’m not so sure it is congratulations.”
Gillespie stared at the remains that used to be known as Jamal Foster. After five years, they finally learned what happened to him.
“At least his family will know,” Gillespie said, breaking the silence. “They can take some comfort in knowing.”
Gillespie thanked her and turned to leave.
It was time to call the agent in Augusta and tell him the remains had been confirmed.
17
Jordan’s office didn’t have anything of interest, and so far, neither did his home. He lived alone in a ranch-style house littered with Playboys, empty beer cans, and clothing. The wallpaper was peeling off the walls and the bathroom obviously hadn’t been properly cleaned in a month.
The way his home looked, Aidan decided that if he could, he’d arrest him for house-abuse.
The grass in the backyard needed to be cut. There was a doghouse, and a golden retriever stood by the opening near two bowls containing water and food. He was barking, letting them know they weren't welcome in his home.
Aidan was looking through a stack of Jordan’s adult magazines mixed with loose papers of receipts and bills when his phone vibrated against his hip.
He glanced at the caller ID and saw it was Chief Gillespie calling.
“Agent O’Reilly.”
“This is Chief Gillespie of Ottawa County in Michigan,” he said.
“I just got the
